


all i want for christmas (is a bunch of gay shit)

by orphan_account



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Fallen London | Echo Bazaar, Original Work
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Sorry guys, a few dragon age stories tho, also we have three hawkes, drabbles!!, ones a male blood mage and theyre both grey wardens, p obv tho lol, that no one will understand, the fallen londom is in chapter 7, theyre triplets, w a lot of personal story shit, warning: our cullen is dating two people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-09 17:27:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 6,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8902642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: A collection of drabbles for my girlfriend. Christmas-themed, and feature characters from our shared stories. (Dragon Age chapters are marked with an *)





	1. and so it begins

**Author's Note:**

> @jo: hello love!!! merry christmas!!!! i love you!!!!!!!
> 
> im sorry for another year of non-gifts (its the last one ever hopefully!!!)
> 
> my blood sweat and tears (nae pi ttam nunmul...) went into this i hope you like it!!
> 
> @most people: these stories wont make a whole lot of sense to you!! theyre a personal gift haha. i dont actually expect anyone to read this lol. ill answer any questions i guess?? da chapters are marked w an asterisk if that what ur here for ;)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Non-zoms! Knightnight!!

"I've never seen Home Alone."

Nightlight immediately regretted the admission, hating the way Dorian's eyes widened, the way his jaw dropped, like he'd done something naughty.

And, just like Nightlight thought he would, the fucker asked him -- practically  _begged_ him to watch it.

Nightlight was annoyed, didn't want to watch a fucking family movie, didn't want to _cry_  in front of fucking Dorian. Because that's what would happen, wouldn't it? Fucking family movies.

But he was looking at him, expectant, a little hopeful. He sighed.

Nightlight was fucking weak.

⭐

He was only fifteen minutes into the movie (Curled into Dorian's side, the older man's arm stiffly laid across his back, finding pleasure in the blush creeping up Dorian's neck) when he began to nod off. He'd never been one for family movies.

He'd only been asleep for a second when Dorian elbowed him awake, but he had no idea what was going on in the movie, and it didn't take long for the confusion and boredom (and the heat radiating from the larger man) to lull him back into his nap.

Dorian woke him again, shaking him, frowning when Nightlight sighed, loud and obnoxious.

After a couple more rude awakenings, Nightlight stopped sighing, opting to gripe and frown at him.

The tenth time, when Nightlight didn't even open his eyes, murmuring "I'm up, I'm up," Dorian scoffed and paused the movie, turning to the younger man in what Nightlight assumed would either be a lecture or something guilt-inducing. He did _not_  want to hear that.

He grumbled, eyes still closed, and turned, falling forward and throwing his other arm around the boy's wide frame. He almost didn't hear Dorian's small "eep" in response, and he _almost_  didn't snicker as his face fell into the crook of Dorian's shoulder.

The older boy was stiff in Nightlight's hold, and he tried to talk, stammering, but was cut off by the younger boy's groan.

"Hey, why you gotta be so annoying?" His tone was teasing, and he rubbed his cheek on Dorian's collarbone. He was warm. "Let a man _sleep_."

Dorian swallowed, loud in Nightlight's ear. He set his hands lightly on the younger boy's back. "Can I... Can I lay down?"

A moment of deliberation. "Yeah."

He opened his eyes as Dorian pulled out of the embrace and laid back against the couch pillows, making himself comfortable. He was nervous, chewing on his lip, and he barely managed to make eye contact with Nightlight when he was ready.

Nightlight regarded him with sleepy eyes, his mussed hair, the blush darkening his nose and neck, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down, the strip of skin visible from where his shirt had ridden up, dusted with dark hair. He grinned, lazy and slow. He crept forward, draping himself alongside Dorian, almost on top of him, a leg crooked over the older boy's jeans, a hand relaxed against his chest. He paused before laying down all the way, gaze still locked in Dorian's. He cocked his head a bit, tracing slow circles on the older man's chest, watching his jaw clench and unclench.

He leaned forward and pressed his lips to Dorian's. It was short, but gentle, and a bit sloppy. Nightlight pulled back and smiled, a small, genuine thing, and Dorian, startled, didn't take long to return it.

Nightlight settled all the way in, then, pressing as close to Dorian as possible, smiling into the warm skin of his neck.

"Night night, fucker."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> get it?? night night????? as in knightnight??????? ;)
> 
> (@others: its their awful ship name im cryi ng)


	2. culture shock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> witches!! some shameless marin/ada lol

Marin hadn't thought about how confusing a 2016 Christmas would be for someone born in the 17th century.

She'd asked Ada for help with decorations, her other friends either out of town or completely useless, and she'd received a bemused shrug in response.

She'd pulled out the boxes (Seven, in total. She was a festive witch.) and Ada had huffed, meeting Marin's eyes and sputtering.

Marin smiled, sheepish. "I know, I know! It's a lot. Sorry." Ada opened her mouth and shut it again, running a hand through her clipped hair before pulling open the box closest to her.

Marin watched, amused, as the older girl stared at the bizarre assortment of ornaments. Ada sat back on her heels and met the younger girl's eyes, bewildered, pulling out a homemade ornament from third grade, a chaotic assortment of popsicle sticks and glitter. "What is this?"

Marin laughed. "That's supposed to be Santa. I made it when I was nine."

Ada narrowed her eyes at the creation, scrutinizing its lopsided eyes, before shooting Marin a look that can only be described as lost. "What's _Santa_?"

There were a solid three minutes of laughter before Marin managed to console herself, throwing Ada her coat and yanking her out the front door, determined to explain four centuries of Christmas tradition in the length of a neighborhood walk.

They'd paused in front of an extravagantly lit colonial house, Marin trying to explain the tradition to a woman who barely grasped the concept of the lightbulb. There was a snicker, but they hadn't noticed, Ada insisting that nobody in their right mind would ever go through such work for _aesthetic_. There was a **BOOF** and Ada reeled back, her face dripping from a thrown snowball.

There was a moment of stillness, Marin frozen with her mouth open, Ada standing still as stone, snow falling from her face in clumps, and the culprit, a ruddy-skinned boy, crouched and laughing behind the genteel snowman built in his yard.

His laughing stopped abruptly when Ada legitimately _growled_ , swiping ice from her face with a tensed hand. Marin rushed to calm her, biting her cheek to keep from smiling as this grown woman, someone who killed people for a living, squinted at the middle schooler, confused and angry.

It was adorable.

It took her ten minutes to calm Ada down, rushed explanations of tradition mixed in with giggles and indignant protests. ( _"It was an attack!"_ ***snort*** )

In the end, they'd joined the kid in his game -- and annihilated him.

They'd gone home after that, the adrenaline of the battle still pumping as Ada shoved Marin into the entryway wall, lips cold and wet where they pushed onto her collarbone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @jo: i hope i wrote her pov ok!!! i l o v e her
> 
> also. ive never wanted to write smut more in my life


	3. the judge*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dragon age!! cullen/reaven surana/farai amell(m/f/m) polyamory!!
> 
> warning: this shit is so far from canon itd barely even the same game. i love it (sorry da fandom)
> 
> set during inquis, at skyhold, before a bunch of shit goes down

"Come back to bed."

Cullen starts at the sudden voice behind him, turning to face the culprit with a hand clutched over his heart.

It's Reaven, up surprisingly early -- if one could call her 'up'. She's still in her nightclothes, her hair knotted at the base of her skull, wisps framing her face, exhausted, pouting. _Beautiful._ From the looks of it, she's brought all of the bed's blankets with her, wrapped tight around her thin frame. Should he find her as beautiful as he does right now? There's dried drool on her chin.

He spares her pout an immediate refusal, opting for "Why?", smiling a bit as she yawns.

But she doesn't get to respond, silenced by a voice from the ladder. "Because it's fucking _cold._ " Farai is lowering himself to the office floor, shivering and pissed. He shoots Reaven a glare and a "Thanks for that." as he shuffles over to a table in the corner, clumsily pulling out the makings for tea.

 _Strange bedfellows,_ he thinks, and chuckles. He continues to work for a moment, frowning at an arbitrary request from Varric, marked a top priority by the Inquisitor. Farai continues his endeavor, warming the brew with thin fingers. He hands Cullen a cup with a soft smile -- rare, saved for mornings -- and sits down nearby with his own. Reaven slumps against Cullen's chair, and contents herself to playing with his hair for a bit. Eventually, three letters in, she gives up. She drops all of her blankets to the floor, and lays back across the clearest part of his desk, opting to sleep right there than climb back up the ladder. Cullen's weary eyes stray to her dappled arms and thighs, bare to the cold. He shakes his head, an attempt to focus, but his eyes betray him, sliding over to study her face, scrunched against a letter from Queen Anora. His gaze lingers on her long eyelashes, her chapped lips.  _Ethereal._

Farai snorts, snapping him out of his reverie. He whips around, face heating up. Farai shoots him a heavy-lidded look over his cup, raising a perfect eyebrow. "Getting a lot of work done, Commander?" Cullen swallows, opting to stare at his unfinished paper over Farai's flashing silver eyes, his thin lips pulled into a smirk. The blonde man sighs, running a hand down his face, weary with obligations and roommates.  _I'm too old for this._

Farai clicks his tongue, setting his tea aside and uncrossing his legs. He pads his way over to Cullen, graceful, and weaves his fingers into the blonde locks, rubbing at the older man's scalp. Cullen relaxes immediately, leaning back into the fingers working soothing circles into his hair. When Farai speaks, it's soft, gentle. "You need a break, love. The Inquisition will survive for one day." He snickers to himself. "Barely."

Cullen wants to argue, but Farai is talented, his fingers nearly doing him in already. He huffs.  _Fuck it._ "Alright, fine, whatever." Farai chuckles, and presses a kiss to the top of his head, before moving to gather the blankets from the floor.

He gestures to Reaven, a fond smile playing on his lips. "Can you get her?" Cullen nods, watches as Farai pulls himself upstairs. He turns to Reaven, presses his dry lips to her cheek (the one  _not_ smeared with drool and Fereldan ink), and gathers her in his arms. She smiles and turns into his chest. She murmurs something, but it's quiet and he doesn't catch it.

"What was that?"

Her voice is small and sweet, a tiny smile playing on her lips. "I said you're fucking weak."

Cullen starts at first, then laughs, booming, as he struggles up the ladder. She blinks up at him, eyes dark and sleepy in the dim winter light. He places her on the left side of his bed, falling into the middle spot, grunting as his weary bones hit the palette. Farai stretches, practiced, onto his other side. Cullen lifts his arms, and they tuck into his sides.

Not a whole minute passes before Reaven is asleep again, and she begins snoring. Farai sighs comfortably, turning his nose farther into Cullen's shoulder. The larger man smiles, soft, pulling the furs snug over them all.  _The world can take care of itself for a day._  

He ignores the  _maybe_ in the back of his mind and nods off.


	4. the father the son and the holy ghosthunter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ghost story!!!! some mentioned keto/chip and v small implied sparrow/chip but mostly!! keto sparrow bonding!!! bc i want them to be friends, dammit.
> 
> these get longer as i write them... thjs was too long to fit in one note on my phone... oops

Keto was going to murder Sparrow.

He had planned his surprise perfectly, had managed to convince everyone out of the apartment for a whole day and had survived smushing a comically oversized pine tree into the living room, a few haphazard branches stretching out over the loft. He'd situated the tree stand and skirt, and had dragged out the countless boxes of ornaments. He was about a third of the way through hanging those when someone got home, dropping their things on the kitchen counter and tossing out a greeting -- causing Keto to yelp and promptly fall off of his stepladder.

The interloper padded their way through to the living room, and met eyes with Keto, laying still on the floor. It was Sparrow, eyes wide and bewildered. He dragged his gaze from the man on the floor and raked it across the room, taking in the drastic change of decor, and regarded Keto again, amused, the left corner of his mouth struggling to suppress a smirk.

"You okay?" Keto flushed, and sat up -- or tried to. He was met with sharp pain in his back and laid back immediately, breath heavy. He twisted a bit, testing his limits. From the feel of it, he hadn't seriously injured himself (because man, did he know _that_ feeling).

He shot Sparrow a glare when he approached, but the younger man just rolled his eyes at him and extended a hand. Keto (reluctantly) took it, and Sparrow helped him to the couch. He kept shooting peculiar glances at the Christmas decorations, like he wanted to ask, but (and Keto wanted to kiss him for this) he thankfully did not.

He left the room, and there were sounds from the kitchen as Keto stared at his unfinished tree, crestfallen. Sparrow came back with a cup of tea and a few Aleve, and Keto gave him a suspicious look before he swallowed them down. He was being uncharacteristically nice. (The tea was delicious, he noted, bitterly.) There was a short silence where Keto drank his tea, and Sparrow fidgeted, eyes sliding between the older man and the Christmas tree.

Keto sighed, cradling the cup in his cold fingers. "I didn't celebrate Christmas before Chip." Sparrow's gaze finally settled on him, eyebrows furrowed a bit at the sudden anecdote, but he listened. "I'd just never had anybody to celebrate it with. That first year we were together, I barely even noticed as it approached. Chip asked me, one day, when we'd decorate. I'd shrugged, told him that I didn't celebrate for Christmas." He smiled at the memory, and Sparrow snorted.

"I can't imagine that sat well with him." His eyes sparkled.

Keto chuckled. "It didn't. He was _furious_. Stormed right out of the house, drove off -- pulled all of his theatrics. I waited for a day, assuming he'd calm down, come back. I didn't think it was a big deal." He snickered. "But he didn't come back, wouldn't answer my calls. He ended up being at his parents, and I got ahold of them. Asked them for advice, asked them to convince him to come home. And you know what they did? They sent me a list of Christmas decorations."

Sparrow laughed at that. "That sounds like them."

Keto shot him a lazy grin. "Right? Anyway, I, being whipped and such, bundled up and ransacked the nearest WalMart I could find. I spent almost _three hundred bucks_ on those fucking knickknacks." Sparrow's eyes widened and he spluttered out a bit of laughter. "I stayed up that entire night putting the decorations out. He got home in the morning, and I was passed out on the floor, drooling onto a half-wrapped present. He shook me awake, and there was this look in his eyes. Like I'd done something miraculous." He was staring into his cup, a wistful smile playing on his lips. Sparrow placed a tentative hand on his shoulder. "We've put them up together since then, but it's been... a while. I wanted to surprise him again." He looked at the tree again, expression strained.

Sparrow leaned back, regarding Keto as he pushed himself off the couch (smiling at the "fuck, shit, what am i, 80?"). He watched Keto push himself up the ladder, grunting as he stretched to hang another ornament. He pursed his lips. "You're never going to finish at this rate."

Keto flushed again, a noise of pain coalescing into grumbling. "I can damn well try."

There was a beat of silence. "Would you like some help?"

Keto turned to face him, suspicious again, but Sparrow seemed genuine (and a bit amused, the asshole). The older man huffed out a sigh, and grunted a noise of affirmation.

They finished in an hour, delayed by multiple snack breaks and a few incidents of broken glass -- most of which were caused by Keto tossing them at Sparrow's snickering form. He managed to dodge every single one.

When Chip and the others got home, Keto and Sparrow were bundled up on the couch, engaged in a heated argument about eggnog. (Keto liked it, but Sparrow did not.) Chip smiled at them, at their handiwork, and made everyone hot chocolate.

(They all ended up joining in the discussion. Chip favored eggnog, and Gus had never tried it. They bickered until Jack raised spiked eggnog, which was something they could all agree on.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ❤❤❤


	5. sorry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorority babes! (unrequited?) heather/diane; diane/caio (fiancée) (i didnt even mention his name lol)
> 
> a short one!! a sad one!!!! thought id get through twelve drabbles w/o angst??? heck, im surprised we got this far 
> 
> anway! set early on, when diane gets engaged (doesnt mention, but its christmas break) (thats why she home)
> 
> sorry again

"I'm getting married!"

Heather is reeling, nauseous, suspended in open air, the words sucking air from her lungs. Her fingers ache. Diane is squealing, a grin threatening to split her jaw, wiggling her shiny new ring inches from Heather's face. She giggling and rambling and bouncing and Heather wants to scream because _no, this can't be happening_ but she looks so happy with wide eyes and flushed cheeks and Heather is being crushed into tiny pieces. She is whirling, on the verge of passing out, but she forces a smile, physically _forces_ it onto her face, squeaks out a "Congratulations!" and they hug. Heather pulls her close, digs her fingers into her shoulders and inhales, lets herself drown in her perfume -- she's breaking her rules, the list of laws she's set up to keep her distance, but she can't stop herself, not now.

Diane pulls out of the hug ( _no, come back, don't leave me, damn it_ ) and she's rushing out of the room to tell Trish, to shove her left hand down another person's throat.

Heather's smile drops as soon as Diane has scuttled out, and she makes a beeline for the fridge, reaching for a bottle of champagne they'd been saving for when she comes back for New Years, but she grimaces and snatches the tequila instead, skipping over the glasses and simply taking the whole bottle to her room, ripping her hair out of its bun in the process. She shuts the door gently, locks it. Diane would have to forgive her for missing the celebrations.

She manages to down the whole bottle before she blacks out.

She leaves for home the next morning, getting on the 6 a.m. plane with puffy eyes and several ibuprofen in her system. Diane had been gone when she woke up.

She orders brandy on the plane, stares out the window with glassy eyes.

⭐

She has to be shaken awake when they land, trudges off the plane feeling like something's hollowed her insides.

Her mother is working when she arrives, locked in her study. The chief of staff, Amanda, takes her to her room, asks if she's hungry, and -- with a concerned look in her eyes -- asks if she's okay. Heather shakes her head, a no. This is her answer to both questions. She asks to be left alone.

Her mother is free before dinner, and sits with her in her room. Heather's mother, Esther, is an intuitive women, and pushes aside her original enthusiastic greeting for thin lips and lowered brows. Heather's hair is down, shining where it falls over her shoulders. She nose and eyes are pink, and blue tints rest under her eyes. She holds her mother's gaze, and can only hold strong for a few seconds before throwing herself into the older woman's embrace, tears already brimming over.

They delay dinner for three hours, Heather telling her mother everything -- how she'd fallen for Diane, how she'd ended things with Chad, and (fingers shaking, hyperventilating) Diane's engagement. ("She was so _happy_.") Her mother listens well, holding her when appropriate, running her thin fingers through Heather's gleaming hair. They'd had to stop to eat, Heather's gut screaming from ingesting nothing but liquor since the previous evening.

Her mother cancels her plans for the night, despite Heather's protests. They stay up late, pouring glass after glass of wine. They watch three Christmas movies before Esther, slightly tipsy, smiles and puts in old family movies. Heather, absolutely smashed, is happy for a night, watching her strict businesswoman mother stress over her mess of a child. Heather had been a handful.

They run out of footage, and fill the air with stories -- sad ones: of her father, her aunt; happier stories of birthdays, snowboarding tournaments. Her mother ends the night with sparkling eyes, her favorite stories -- her proud stories. When, in seventh grade, Heather punched a bully in the face. (The school had threatened suspension. She'd threatened closure, fingernails tapping on the screen of her phone.) When, during freshman year, Heather had come out, stammering and red-faced, but firm. Esther had never been so proud of her daughter, scared but brave.

She tells her of her pride now, holds her wet-cheeked child, strokes her hair, murmurs in her ear.

"There is nothing braver than falling in love."


	6. toe the line*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more dragon age!! 
> 
> @jo: remember when we decided that töre has slept with both anders and fenris (and probably isabela)?? and i said id write smut???? this is close.
> 
> figured you could use smth fun following last chapter's depression. 
> 
> so!! fenris/töre hawke (i might've made it a teensy bit romantic) (like emotional) (well see how this affects our canon)
> 
> also this has nothing to do with christmas

Fenris hadn't planned on getting involved with _any_ of the Hawkes, let alone Töre, the hulking oldest sibling.

He was blunt and aggressive, most of the time. Fenris hadn't even known there was another side to him until he had strode into the Hanged Man, pissed and aching for alcohol that didn't remind him of Danarius.

A few of the Hawkes' friends had pushed tables together, and were ass-deep into a game of Wicked Grace. He'd edged around the table, agitation ebbing away but unsure if he was invited.

He ordered a drink, turned his head to look as a the group erupted into cheers and curses. Töre was standing, basking as he pulled all of the game's proceeds to his chest. He seemed to notice Fenris, and their eyes met. A lazy grin spread over his face, and he gestured him over. Fenris, stiff, peeled himself from the bar and allowed himself to be ushered next to the oldest Hawke, didn't protest when he stretched a heavy arm across his shoulders. He spread out next to him when they sit, and gameplay resumed.

Töre kept winning, destroyed everyone, drained Fenris of his last copper piece, but the elf couldn't bring himself to care. Faced with Töre's dimpled smile and eyes alive with the tavern's ale, he didn't care much for anything but staring, dropped out of the third game in favor of watching the bigger man think.

It happened after that game, when Töre excused himself to piss, and lidded green eyes followed him as he left. Fenris turned back to the table, drained the last of the tavern's swill, and met Isabela's eyes. She'd smirked at him, nodded. He was very, very drunk and arrogant and reckless, and he stumbled after the eldest Hawke.

He hadn't wasted time with explanations, simply confronted the man on his exit from the washroom, pushing him against the Hanged Man's grimy wall, pressing their mouths close. There'd been hesitation on Töre's part, but then movement, and it was like a fire had been lit, Fenris' lips parting at a rather rough bite from the bigger man. Thick arms wrapped around his lithe form, and they'd pushed themselves flush together. Töre only interrupted to push Fenris toward an empty room, growling as he shoved him down onto the tavern's scratchy sheets, burying his face in Fenris' neck. The elf started, letting out a strangled moan, and flushed, feeling Töre grin into his collarbone.

Fenris, in his drunken haze, decided he quite like this side of Töre.

⭐

He woke up slowly, blinking lazily up at the man wrapped around him. Töre. He carefully removed his head from wear it was tucked into the Hawke's chest, shifting a bit to get his bearings. He attempted to turn a bit, maybe pull away from the Fereldan man, but he must've jostled too much, rousing Töre enough to grumble and gather the elf tighter in his arms.

Fenris cursed under his breath, looked up, startled, when Töre mumbled again, waking. He looked down at Fenris with bleary eyes, and there wasn't a full second before recognition, realization ran across his face. Fenris panicked for a moment, going tense in Töre's grip, but the bigger man chuckled, and the elf (reluctantly) relaxed. They held gazes, and a lazy grin spread across Töre's face.

For just a moment, Fenris didn't think of anything bitter. No Danarius, no Qunari, no companions being reckless and/or suicidal. He simply saw the happiness in Töre's gaze, and returned it, pecking a chaste kiss to the corner of Töre's mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in case anyone is wondering! our hawkes!!
> 
> töre, oldest. two-handed warrior. doesn't romance anyone in da2 (but fucks around) mostly red. purple w his fam
> 
> avis, middle triplet. female, dagger rogue. sleeps w isabela?? romances anders. V PURPLE. official champion
> 
> oya, youngest trip. female, blood mage, lesbian. romances merrill. a fun mix of purple and red. (i love her)
> 
> beth dies from ogre, carver is a grey warden :P (töre may or may not become inquisitor. shhh)


	7. a neathmas miracle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fallen london!!!! from second pov!!! amazing
> 
> angst w a happy ending? not sure. animal cracker/spades isn't directly mentioned but its always there
> 
> love this boyo (for anyone wondering, his name is Emma, short for Emerson) (hes a fucking mess)
> 
> (sorry for throwing spades under the bus babe she needs her soul back)

You should've never started the Search. Should've never bitten into that poison, reached for that forbidden fruit.

You've lost so much. Your wits, that which you pride yourself on -- it's dulled. Your presence, your influence -- washed away in the year you spent clinging onto your dregs of life, shying away from the chessboard, stealing half-breaths from others close to permanent death. You swam beneath the surface, heaving with hunger, retching, throwing up nothing but dust.

When you stumbled back into the living world, your friends had assumed you gone forever. Animal Cracker had fallen into despair, had shown hope -- naïve, really -- and you had crushed it, brushing off concern and pleas for help in order to pursue your impossible dream, chasing after an answer, _the_ answer. You'd taken an entire friendship -- years of overcoming obstacles, of bonding, bickering -- and tossed it aside like garbage. (Spades didn't care much. And when she did, she cared so much your blood ran cold. You'd throw yourself into the Search just to get away from that feeling.)

Things didn't improve once he'd passed the initial betrayal phase.

You died several more times, and he was less distraught every time. You stopped lecturing at the University, quit your job. You rarely even looked into the Correspondence anymore, one great mystery thrown away for a darker one. (Maybe you wanted to torture yourself. This wasn't the first time he'd looked at you differently. Like you'd changed forms, twisted into some monster. You didn't like to visit the docks.) You stopped eating, stopped leaving the house, managed to numb yourself to everything but the hunger and the guilt.

Because despite you fucking everything six ways to Sunday, they were still worried about you. And while Spades only showed her concern on rare occasions, Animal Cracker showed it in his every glance. When his eyes linger over the dips in your cheeks, or your stairstep ribs. He was tired of you, exhausted, but he exuded worry in his every look, and this thought didn't leave your mind for a second.

And so here you are, leaning over a sigil, a Bad End put to paper. You're swaying, your vision swims with spots. Starvation. You can hear him, speaking to you, voice a horrified whisper. _What have you done?_ You choke out a sob, thinking about how weary he looked the last time you saw them, how threadbare he was next to an empty, lost Spades. You have to help them. You resolve yourself, lean against the table with a growl -- though no sound comes out. The hunger has left you weak. You place your hand on the sigil, and, on the verge of blacking out, end your Search.

You wake up three hours later, starving. But it's a better hunger, a mortal one. You smile a bit, laugh soundlessly into your hands, stare bewildered at the wetness pouring down your cheeks. You haven't regained all that you've lost. Your brain is still muddled, your ties still severed. Animal Cracker isn't about to forgive you.

But he might eventually. You grab your coat, wince at how it envelopes your malnourished frame, and begin your trek to their home, resolving to apologize.

...And maybe stay for dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IF YOU DON'T PLAY FALLEN LONDON YOU SHOULD


	8. enter: huge tool

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soul story!!! set right after carpet monster
> 
> i just kinda made this shit up like. which brother is avery? which one is logan? would glasses douche be looking for leather jacket ass??? who knows!!! but wendys gay and pissed

Wendy had been aware of her feelings for quite a while.

She'd have to be incredibly dense not to notice her stomach doing flips at Ivy's smile, skin prickling where the other girl's fingers lingered.

She'd known of them, but she hadn't placed a name to them yet.

She'd be warm, something swelling in her chest when Ivy held her, took care of her when Wendy stumbled home from a night of fun, of distractions.

Once, she'd come home early, not so much stumbling as shuffling, nervous. Ivy had given her a skeptical look, patted the couch next to her. Wendy had settled in.

Four hours later, and they're watching those miracle church sermons, drunk on wine coolers and mocking the tiny, wrinkled white man keening to his audience. He'd pulled forward a trembling old woman, helped her call upon the lost love of her life. They fell into the roles easily, snorting and giggling as they held each other, murmuring ridiculous confessions of love. There'd been a moment of silence, and Wendy eyes lingered on Ivy's mouth, curved into a secret little smile. The television crowd was silent, and she'd gone for it, planting a wet kiss right on that smirk. She'd pulled back, seen Ivy's wide eyes, and stammered out an excuse, locking herself in her room to panic until she passed out.

Ivy claims she doesn't remember anything from that night. Wendy knows she's lying, but she thinks it better they not address it.

But here she is now, panicking again, for a different reason. She'd come home the morning after a party, sulking at the lack of worried calls from Ivy. She'd trudged into the house, already spinning her half-assed apology, to find it empty.

The thing was, when she shot Ivy a quick text ("Where are you? Sorry I wasn't home last night." She didn't even bother with an excuse. Ivy knew her too well), she was shocked to hear the jingle play from the room she was in. She struggled to locate it, sending probably fifteen different emojis to keep it ringing, but eventually found it -- kicked under their threadbare couch. _Weird_. Something like dread crept up her spine, and she set about finding signs of Ivy's absence.

Except she couldn't find any. Her purse was still on the kitchen table, her wallet still safe inside. The lights in her room were still on. Every pair of shoes she owned remained piled by their front door.

So here Wendy stands, shaking, colossally losing her shit, because Ivy _didn't leave on purpose_. She rushed out, or worse (it's here that Wendy finally slips into a full-blown panic attack). She's choking out sobs, struggling to type 911 into her iPhone, but she's interrupted -- a knock, curt and firm (nothing like Ivy's, in retrospect, but she's frantic). She practically throws herself at the door, hope turning to despair, even anger, when she opens the door to a tall, dark-haired man with chunky glasses. He regards her with thinned lips, rolls his eyes at her shaking form. _Tool_.

He clears his throat, presses his glasses back up his nose. "I believe you're looking for someone." He waits, impatient. She nods, slowly. "So am I. Perhaps we can," and he forces this out, " _help_ each other." He meets her eyes, struggles to smile, and she has the overwhelming urge to punch him.

He coughs, presses his way inside, and she lets him in, too dazed to protest. He pauses, brushes his hand on the entryway wall. He mumbles, almost to himself. "She hasn't been here for hours." He turns on his heel, walks right out of the apartment again, trailing his hand along the wall as he goes. Wendy follows, bewildered.

He stops, sudden, some time before the exit, sneering down at the opulent carpet. "Oh, he was here, alright." He throws Wendy like an amused glance, like they're old friends sharing a joke, like her best friend, the _love of her life_ isn't missing. The urge to punch him straight in the mouth washes over her again. He leans down, runs his finger along a spot in the carpet, raises it to his nose. Sniffs. His eyes widen, and he meets Wendy's eyes. He speaks, and his voice is reverent. "He really found her." His mouth curves into a sneer, and Wendy fumes.

The apartment building is silent, and she goes for it, planting a closed fist, hard, right on the fucker's mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not pictured: wendy dragging avery/logan? by their ear back into the apartment and demanding a full explanation


	9. sometimes a family isnt a man a woman and a child

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sometimes its a famous fashion designer, her colorblind son, the daughter of a senator, a prince of an obscure foreign country, and an accidental sculptor. and sometimes all of the children have powers.
> 
> (accidental sculptor gets Me HoO BOY)
> 
> anyway hello love!! superheroes!!!! a few things: i tried haunted's collective we but didnt do it right whatever (the we only refers to Shakespeare, stank, and midas).
> 
> i dont remember how to spell her bf's name (lief? leif? ....leaf?) nor what he was like so i made him personable?
> 
> there's a lot of midas/picasso in this lol sorry
> 
> set after whatever huge attack catalyst thing happens and they tell his mom and stay at his place
> 
> where is picasso's dad? dead, hopefully
> 
>  
> 
> enjoy!!!!

We celebrated our first Christmas following the attack at Picasso's house, snowed in. Shakespeare's mom thought the attack had been political, agreed that not being home was safe. It hurt her to lie to her mother, but only Picasso's parents knew -- and thus, only Picasso's house had a military-grade stronghold in their basement.

So we stayed over, Shakespeare and Stank and Midas, all camped in Picasso's room (neat, colorful, whimsical. there were countless pictures of them all, tacked on every inch of free wall space), watching Christmas movies, grateful for something mundane in the midst of the surreal.

We scoffed at the awful Christmas specials on Hallmark, debated between Finding Bigfoot and Animal Planet, compromised with a Ghost Adventures marathon (including a Christmas special!).

We pretended not to notice when Midas held his breath and shoved his hand into Picasso's, shared glances when Picasso's face lit up brighter than the Christmas Tree in his sitting room.

We snickered when Picasso pulled Midas into the hallway, made bets until they strode back in, Picasso's lips flecked with gold. Shakespeare got most of the earnings.

We fell asleep together, limbs tangled. Even Midas got comfortable, able to doze off without solidifying us.

We woke up early, powerless to the scent of bacon wafting into Picasso's room. We trudged into the kitchen, avoiding the sitting room and its presents, avoiding the yearning for home tugging at some of our stomachs.

We ate a lot of food, and Picasso's mother provided it happily, whistling Christmas tunes all the while. (She piled Midas' plate particularly high. "You're ask skinny as starvation itself, dear." He would blanch, and she'd shoot Picasso a wink.)

We held onto breakfast as long as we could, sliding leftovers onto Stank's plate.

But then it was time for presents, and there was a collective swallow. We weren't necessarily distressed at a lack of presents, but, rather, of family. We were intruders.

But walking into the sitting room, we balked. There was a stocking for each of us, presents at the ready.

We went to protest, to inquire. We were angry, guilty. We hadn't brought anything, it was short notice.

But Picasso shushed us, socked us in the shoulder (well, just Stank). "You don't have to reciprocate. You're family."

And we smiled, embraced that feeling. There were hugs, tears (mostly from Midas and, surprisingly, Stank).

In the end, it only took us ten minutes to rip our way through the presents. Stank belly-laughed at the Febreze, nearly cried (again) at the genuine gift, a simple choker with a peculiar pendant -- a strange little spiral Picasso had designated to the group. (When prompted for an explanation: "Because we're _superheroes_ , dammit. We've gotta have _s_ _omething._ ") Stank didn't take it off all day.

Shakespeare had gotten a really nice notebook, leather-bound and thick. "A Shakespearean Insult Generator" had been tucked inside, along with the note "In case you ever need a little help."

Midas had swallowed hard at the huge copy of King Midas' myth, forced a polite smile. Picasso had rolled his eyes, shot him an "Open it." It was a false book, the inside hollowed out. Tucked inside, a pair of gloves, fingerless and threaded with gold, and a note: "Just kidding! I'm not _that_ much of an asshole. You said actual gold amplified your powers, so I had these whipped up. The rest of your present will come later." Midas, surprisingly, had been the first to snicker, though there were tears brimming in his eyes. Picasso flushed amidst his friends' laughter and teasing. ("That's not what it means!" he whined, as if any of us would believe him.)

We spent the rest of our Christmas joyful, watching Picasso flush as he unwrapped packs of underwear. ( _"Mom!"_ "Everyone wears them, Samael!")

Picasso's relatives came over for dinner, shooting us confused glances, but his mother had explanations ready. Stank and Shakespeare called their parents, wished them well. Leif made a surprise visit, had the whole table laughing over their Christmas ham. Picasso held Midas' hand under the table.

We ate too much, and stayed up late, playing board games in the sitting room. It only took five minutes for Picasso and Shakespeare to eliminate the other players, turning it into a supernatural gladiator match. They kept at it for half an hour, before Picasso's mom split them up, declared Midas the winner, and banned use of powers. The night remained peaceful after that.

(Midas' _later_ present hadn't been a blowjob like we'd all thought, but rather a painting Picasso had hidden in his closet -- a picture Stank had snapped of them a month ago. Shakespeare lost that bet, but demanded her money back when they woke in the morning to find Picasso and Midas asleep in the basement.)


	10. and finally: us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i didnt exactly make it to twelve chapters, but i figure ten is pretty good.
> 
> this is a short one, and its focus is different: real life. us. the future.
> 
> this is food for thought. a (hopefully) sweet breath of air amidst christmas stress.
> 
> i love you. enjoy

Imagine... us.

Imagine living together, celebrating birthdays in our bungalow, surprising each other with breakfast in bed (a forewarning: I'm a terrible cook).

Imagine Christmases here, our pastel wonderland draped in tinsel (because you're lying if you think I won't be crazy for decorating). Imagine coming down in the morning, sharing cups of hot chocolate. Imagine gifts, thoughtful. No awkward reactions, no forced smiles at awful presents (well... awful presents from distant relatives). Only soft smiles and snorts and morning cuddles. No feeling guilty for wanting to rip into gifts at six in the morning, because I am _all for that._

Imagine family Christmases, except we're together, and they _know_. Weird homophobic aunts are either tight lipped or absent, but we'll find comfort in shared looks, in the thought of returning home only to each other, to warm, understanding eyes.

Imagine New Years. If we're with friends (most likely a disorienting mix of old and new), we will be together. An item. A _couple_.

Imagining life with you is a selfish of me, but one of my favorite things. I can only imagine one better thing -- living that life.

I love you, kitten. Merry Christmas.


End file.
